


Sweet Dreams

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Memories, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moment between sleep and wake, the past and present do not dare collide, but merge together in a blissful haze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

Light. Fading afternoon light. The sun’s rays played with the trees beyond, with the grass below, and lay to rest on the white curtains blown inward by the wind. The light rested, and he thought that so should he. He watched the light strike the pores of freshly washed curtains and transform it to forever falling snow. There was snow in the middle of summer, serene sleep, peace.

“Brother?” the voice drew him back from the cliff of dreams. It was a sweet, innocent voice, the kind that could only belong to a boy of three. Julien tugged the cloth at his knees, looking at him curiously with bright blue eyes that belonged to his father, questioning him on why he was sleeping on a chair instead of a bed.

“Play?” Julien said. In another day, he would have obliged, but his body and mind were too weary. His arms lay heavily on the cushion, his elbows perfectly settled on soft sockets formed from nights of reading. By the window, the snow kept falling, and he would have liked to gaze at it until the world of the waking dissolved. He wanted to close his eyes and read the words that always formed under his eye lids, white against black, clear even without his spectacles, words that he must have read before, and words that he had yet to write.

He looked at his brother and shook his head slowly. Not today, little one, he said without words, and the little one understood completely. He crumpled his nose with an effort, and when he was done thinking, he looked up with hopeful eyes and asked in a sing-song voice, “Sleep? We sleep?”

His chest heaved with a heavy breath and the air escaped in the form of a resigned sigh, the sigh matching the squeal of delight from the boy below. With concentrated effort, he met the outstretched hands of his brother and lifted him to his lap, where the angel buried his small nose to the depths of his shirt. He put one hand behind the tiny waist to secure him, and another to cradle the thick wisp of dark hair. Julien’s eyes appeared as he raised his head to look at his brother. “Sweet d’weams,” he said as he lay his head against his brother’s chest, letting the dull thud of heartbeat lull him to sleep. With a last sigh, he kissed the top of Julien’s head and leaned back against the chair, his brother’s tight embrace a comforting weight.

— - —

Combeferre woke with the soft clink of the door closing. His dream retreated to an irretrievable part of his mind. He tried to hold on to the memory, to the feeling of warm embraces and soft chairs, but it slipped further from his clutch as he felt a presence in the room. Enjolras stood by the window, gazing out at the street as the light played shadows across his face. Sensing him awake, Enjolras turned to him.

“You were smiling,” he said without prelude. “I thought it best not to wake you but…” he gestured to the bed. Having just woken, Combeferre took some time to comprehend this, and when he did, he let out a weary sigh and buried his head further into the cushions. “I was tired,” he said to the ceiling, “am tired.” Enjolras’s lips pressed together, and briskly he closed the distance between window and bed and gently laid a palm on his forehead. “Shall I let you rest?”

Combeferre felt the reassuring hand on his brow. Warm touches and soft cushions, blue eyes and psalmic voices. He felt as if he was in a dream. “Stay?” he said.

Enjolras loomed over him, dark eyes wrought with concern and affection, assessing, deciding, giving. Wordlessly, he shed his coat and shoes. He loosened his cravat and slipped beneath the sheets to assume their usual position — Enjolras at his side, tucking his chin on the space between Combeferre’s shoulder and neck, finding Combeferre’s hand and lacing fingers, Combeferre idly playing with the curls on his head. They lay on the bed, breathing, living, drinking in the silence.

“I was going to wake you for dinner,” Enjolras said to his ear, his voice tainted with the coming drawl of slumber, “but I’d much rather sleep now.” Combeferre smiled and kissed the top of his head, “Sweet dreams, brother.”

By the window, the curtains caught the last rays of light and transformed into forever falling snow. There was snow in the middle of summer, serene sleep, and peace.


End file.
